


bad in the blood

by pocoloki



Category: Dungeons and Daddies (Podcast)
Genre: (technically Eldritch possession but AO3 doesn't have that as an option), AMOD spoilers, Aftermath of Violence, Demonic Possession, Episode 42 Spoilers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:27:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26616685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocoloki/pseuds/pocoloki
Summary: In the aftermath of the fight with Barry, Darryl discovers that Henry isn't the only one with a family curse.
Relationships: Henry Oak/Darryl Wilson
Comments: 3
Kudos: 24





	bad in the blood

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers ahoy for the ending of AMOD!
> 
> We all know now that Henry's got a little Doodler in him, but I feel like not enough attention has been paid to the fact that Darryl's got a family curse, too. Namely, that the dang thing keeps eating his ancestors like they're its favourite tasty treat. 
> 
> Well, I haven't forgotten, and I wanted to explore that shit in as dramatic and self-indulgent a way as possible, and well... this was the result. This scenario is honestly the reason why I've been pulling for Doodler!Henry for so long, and now that it's official, I just wanted to get this thing out there and off my chest before it doesn't happen in the next episode. So, here we are. 
> 
> (Title is from Runs in the Family by Amanda Palmer, which is the single most Oakvale-arc-ass song I've heard and an absolute banger to boot.)

A tempest rages in the wreckage of the temple. Dark clouds swirl overhead, and wind whips in a vortex around a single, solitary figure. It’s the familiar thin frame of Henry Oak, but… different. Warped. Behind his glasses, his eyes glow with an eerie, achromatic hue, simultaneously every colour and and none at all, something not of this world, a shade that Darryl knows his eyes and brain and _being_ shouldn’t be able to comprehend.

Lightning splits the sky overhead, and for the briefest of moments, the silhouette changes. A mass of dark tendrils surrounds the body like a warped, roiling halo. Darryl stops dead in his tracks, awestruck. Something _clicks_ within him at the sight of it, a sudden shift in gravity. 

“Stay here!” He shouts back to the others, struggling to be heard over the cacophony of howling wind and pounding hail and the terrified cries of Oakvalians running for shelter. “If anything goes wrong… get the boys out of here.”

“Darryl, hold on, man, you gotta think about this…”

The bard's words go unheeded. There’s no time to think. No time for a plan. No time for any thoughts to cross Darryl's mind except _that’s Henry in there and he needs our help_. 

He rushes headlong into the vortex, Stone’s Endurance shielding him from the worst of the elements. The wind tears at his rain-drenched clothes, and bolts of pure, uncontrolled magic barely glance off him as he makes his way through the storm, drawn inexorably towards its source. 

As he pushes his way through the buffeting wind, he finds himself again distracted by Henry’s silhouette at the centre. The strange shadows he casts, backlit by lightning. The unearthly colour of his eyes. The wild, hypnotic movements of the tendrils that seem to emanate from his figure.

There’s something about it that’s... familiar? No, not quite. Not familiar. More like… _inevitable_. 

He _knows_ the figure in front of him on some deep, intangible level, has known it since he was a child. More than that, he has known as sure as his next breath that it would come for him someday. 

He remembers with sudden clarity the chill that had overcome him, months ago, when Grant had brought home a soccer jersey bearing its likeness. How he had felt the inevitable, inexorable call even then, even just from the pale imitation of a child’s drawing. It had scared him. Repulsed him, even. He had hated it, railed against it, the way it made his skin crawl, the way it _called_ to him. 

He may as well have railed against the sunrise. 

Seeing it now, in the metaphorical flesh, beautiful and terrible and magnetic and horrifying and _final_ , is incomparable. Allure overcomes repulsion, and its call grows louder and stronger the longer he looks, the closer he draws, until its presence occupies the entirety of his being, everything else fading away into pleasant static around him. 

Barry’s lifeless body, tossed like a ragdoll to the edge of the clearing. Glenn, Ron, and the kids behind him. Grant, somewhere else in this world. Carol, somewhere outside it… none of it matters. None of it _exists_. There is only him, and the Doodler, and the space between them, steadily diminishing as Darryl succumbs to its inexorable pull. 

“I...I know you,” he feels himself saying, dazed. “You’ve been waiting for me.” 

_All your life_ , it says, though its vessel’s lips never move. 

It extends a hand, fingers stretched out towards him, and it looks so inviting, so comforting… like it was always meant to be. He finds himself reaching out in turn, as natural and involuntary as breathing, ready to grasp that welcoming hand in a firm handshake and fulfill his destiny-

The fingers twitch, just for a moment, pulling back in a jerky, abortive motion just as their hands are about to connect. 

_That’s not right - it isn’t right._

Spell broken, the static fades in his ears, and Darryl’s gaze snaps back up to the Old One’s face, only to see that the strange achromatic light in its eyes has faded, just a little, replaced for the briefest moment by sheer, helpless terror. 

_Run_ , something in them screams. 

Who screams? He doesn’t know. It doesn’t matter, and in the time it takes for him to blink, for the static to resume, the terror in those eyes has vanished as suddenly as it appeared. 

Still, it tugs at something in Darryl, nagging at the small, still-conscious part of his brain even as he reflexively offers his hand once more to the Old One. 

There’s something important he needs to remember. Something he came in here for in the first place. Something, some _one_ , but it’s so hard to think, so hard for anything to matter when he’s finally, _finally_ staring his destiny in the face...

The Doodler’s hand closes around his, and it’s a death sentence and his heart’s greatest desire all at once. To realize his purpose, to succumb to the chaos of the universe, to finally feel, to _feel_ -

...To feel that familiar, calloused hand in his. 

He knows it. 

It’s the same hand that had held his as the Library sawed into his flesh. That had rubbed his back, comforting him as he cried after Grant disappeared. That had snatched a rifle from his own hands, taking with it the blame for his cold-blooded kill. That had grabbed him by the front of his shirt on their first day here, and pulled him in, and made him feel something like love for the first time in so, so long.

Henry. _Henry._

The Doodler is still staring at him with its stolen, glowing eyes. No emotion shows on its face - on _his_ face, on _Henry’s_ \- but Darryl gets the sense that it is impatient. Waiting, just as it’s always been waiting, on that handshake that will seal his fate. 

Well. It’ll have to wait a little longer. 

“Darryl Wilson,” he says, looking it right in the eye. “I’d say it’s nice to meet you, but…” He takes the offered hand, leans in close and whispers. “I’m not here for you.” 

Then he tightens his grip to a vicelike squeeze and tugs it toward himself with all the strength he can muster, praying it’s enough. Caught off guard, or perhaps still unused to the gangliness of its human vessel, the Doodler stumbles forward, losing its balance. Darryl’s free hand finds its jaw and cups it, guides it towards him, and as the storm rages around them- 

-He silences it with a kiss. 


End file.
